


Don't Turn Away

by MissLouisa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:05:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissLouisa/pseuds/MissLouisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John makes the first move - this isn't new to him.<br/>For Sherlock, though, it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Turn Away

**Author's Note:**

> For http://kansikuvapoika.tumblr.com/ for the Johnlock Fic Exchange December 2012
> 
> I hope you like!

John had never seen Sherlock floundering for words before. It was an entirely new experience. He had, however, seen Sherlock storm out of a room in lieu of saying something pointed, but he was pretty sure that wasn't why Sherlock left in a hurry.

John wondered when Sherlock was going to make his speech about being married to his work. He may not be as perceptive as Sherlock, but he could see that coming.

The thing was, John was reasonably certain Sherlock had no idea how to deal with this. Sure, John didn't really have a clue what he was doing either, but that was a tried and true method for John. He liked to think he was lovably clueless.

As far as John knew, Sherlock had never dealt with any kind of relationship before. Not even a friendship. John was feeling his way through this thing that growing between them, but Sherlock didn't even know how to do that.

It worried John a little, but he brushed aside his concerns. Until today. Until he could no longer do that.

John had kissed Sherlock. He found himself wondering at his stupidity even now. It was possibly the worst idea he'd ever had.

When Sherlock came back - _If_ Sherlock came back, John would apologise profusely. He should've known better. He should've - well. He didn't know what he should have done.

He didn't know what the right way to go about this was.

John wondered whether he should wait, or go out and look for him. Or just leave, maybe, to save the discomfort that would come with the rejection.

He settled, in the end, for a stiff drink at the pub with a friend who didn't know Sherlock.

Or – Harry.

Drinking with Harry was never a good idea. For one, he always felt like a terrible brother.

For two, she could drink him under the table.

"So, why are you so keen to get drunk this evening?" Harry asked, two hours in.

John frowned at her. She sounded upsettingly sober. Which was good and bad.

Good, because he felt less like a terrible brother.

Bad, because she'll remember this conversation in the morning.

"Sherlock," he tried, not sure he was getting his lips around the word quite right.

"Sherlock," she repeated, looking a little blank.

John frowned. "My flatmate? Lanky, gorgeous, kind of a toff."

Harry smirked, and John frowned.

"So?" Harry asked. "I take it something went wrong."

John flushed. Or, he thought he did. It's possible that he was already red cheeked from the drinking.

"I kissed him," he muttered. Harry cooed. Actually, genuinely cooed.

John hated her.

"Have you talked to him?" She asked softly. John frowned.

"He just left."

"And then you came drinking with me," Harry said.

"You haven't drunk anything."

Harry smiled. "I know."

John shot her a dirty look, which Harry laughed off.

"You're supposed to be pleased I'm doing better, asshole."

John pulled a face. "I am, I am. I just don't want to talk to you ever again."

"This conversation never happened," Harry said, waving a hand dismissively. "But you should talk to Sherlock."

John blinked at her.

"You are the worst sister ever."

-

Sherlock wasn't around when John got back. He knew he was home - his dressing gown had been removed from the laundry basket, but he wasn't available for John to talk to.

Which was probably a good thing, considering the mess John was in. He tried to be quiet climbing the stairs, but he failed. Spectacularly. Sherlock, for whatever reason, chose to ignore this (John was used to a muffled snort when he came home after a little too much to drink), but John couldn't blame him.

It wasn't until the next morning when Sherlock said anything at all.

In fact, the words that tripped off his tongue were exactly what John expected them to be.

"I'm married to my work, you know that," Sherlock said.

John found himself nodding, a little numb. "I crossed a line," he said, apologetically. "Won't happen again."

Sherlock's sharp eyes were trained on John, but he seemed satisfied by whatever he saw.

"I've got a case," he said, tugging on his coat. John heard the unspoken  _you're not welcome_ before Sherlock opened the door.

Well, John found himself thinking, now what?

He supposed he should be grateful that Sherlock hadn't flat out thrown him out. That he was going to be able to make a shift on time - maybe two, at this rate. But Sherlock was John's best friend, and he felt like something had fractured between them.

It felt like his balance was completely thrown.

-

His shift at work was dull, and Sherlock was out, probably being shot at, when he got home. He made tea. He turned on the telly, and he didn't know what to do then. Daytime telly wasn't engaging when Sherlock wasn't there to snark at. He didn't have anything to blog about, he didn't have anything to read about. He wondered, a little if this was what Sherlock felt like in the lull between the cases.

John might not have Sherlock's brain, but he'd had Sherlock to make up for it. And now he was just idly killing time, waiting for what - Sherlock to forgive him?

Sherlock to stop running scared, maybe. John wasn't pining for Sherlock, John didn't pine, but he couldn't help but feel that Sherlock was something else.

Way out of his league, maybe.

He was pondering whether or not Jeremy Kyle would be better with a beer when his phone rang.

"Lestrade?" He answered.

"Where the hell are you? Sherlock's being even more irritating than usual."

John blinked. "I'm sitting out of this one."

Lestrade huffed. "You  _can't_ , John."

John shut his eyes. "Not today, Lestrade."

John wanted to go. John desperately wanted to go - but it wouldn't be fair to Sherlock.

There was a clatter, and then a sharp voice began to speak. "For god's sake, John, just come. It'll make Lestrade stop hovering."

"Sherlock, what-"

"Forget it," Sherlock said, "just come."

And then he hung up. John was puzzled, for a moment or two, but then grabbed his coat.

He was bored in this flat anyway.

-

Anderson snorted when he walked in, muttering about how John always followed orders.

John shrugged it off, he was used to it. He wasn't used to seeing Sherlock twitch, and maybe if he'd been subject to those comments all day, it explained a little why he was so irritable.

The case itself was fairly dull. John found himself wondering how Sherlock hadn't solved it sooner, then remembered Lestrade's defeated demeanor, and Anderson's sulky comments. Something was going on, today, and for the life of him John couldn't figure out what. John tried in earnest to brush off the lingering fear that John was off his game because of _him_.

Perhaps, John considered, it would be an improvement if he and Sherlock  _weren't_  always living out of each other's pockets.

John knew, at least, that he had to be less wrapped up in himself. Sherlock was - well - important to him, there was no denying that. There was a sense of belonging with Sherlock that John hadn't felt since the army, and that wasn't an option for him any more.

He just wanted the man to be a presence in his life, that's all. 

The kissing was a bad idea. That was obvious now. Sherlock, though, had progressed from avoidance to treating him with a mild indifference. John, in kind, responding by treating Sherlock as a spooked animal.

Nobody ever said John was good with people, just better than Sherlock.

Following Sherlock around today though, watching him bristle more than usual at idly barbed remarks, was difficult. John felt - responsible. He'd thrown himself off balance by making the first move, a move which was a terrible idea in general. But he'd thrown Sherlock off balance too. It made John feel a little like he was a terrible friend. 

John had tried to be a good friend, but he had to acknowledge that he'd ignored Sherlock's boundaries. Blindly strolled through the inevitable minefield that was propositioning Sherlock (although admittedly things hadn't gone that far).

Sherlock had explicitly told him that he wasn't interested, the second day they met.

And John had ignored that warning, moved in on territory that wasn't his.

No wonder Sherlock felt uncomfortable.

-

The assumed agreement to ignore what had happened lasted two uncomfortable days, right up until John tried to apologise. Again.

Sherlock interrupted him, raising a hand.

"It's not your fault, John. I accept that my body language implied a mutual interest and you responded to the signals appropriately."

John blinked.

Sherlock didn't say anything else. 

John wondered, a little, about the body language thing. It was true, John wasn't completely stupid, he'd thought there'd been a mutual interest, but he'd banished that idea from his mind immediately after the fact. It was obvious that Sherlock hadn't felt the same way, John had obviously been misreading things.

But apparently not. What puzzled him even more, was that Sherlock felt the need to point this out. 

Later, Sherlock brought it up again.

"I owe you an apology."

"No, you don't," John wondered, considering, not for the first time, what kind of model of a healthy relationship Sherlock had had. 

"I may not have been completely honest about my intentions."

John opened his mouth, and closed it again.

"I'm not -" Sherlock gestured, exasperated. "I'm not willing to lose you as a friend."

"Nobody said you would."

"I've spent most of my life alone, John, and I am aware that I don't have the necessary attributes-"

John raised a hand, and cut him off. 

"Whatever speech you have prepared, no. I'm not going to listen to you telling me you're new to this, or you're scared. You, Sherlock Holmes, are a _genius_ , and you're not afraid of anything."

Sherlock blinked.

"Are you-" he tried, "Would you be interested in-" Sherlock cut himself off. "Angelo's?"

John nodded, feeling a smile that threatened to burst out. "You're okay?"

Sherlock gave John a look as if to imply _whyever not?_

John ignored it. He knew better now.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this was "Sherlock unsure" in the genre of John angst. It wasn't as angsty as I would've liked it to be, but I hope that's okay. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
